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V 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton-Patriot 

A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


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Sarah  bradlee  Fulton-Patriot 

A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


Bij  Qrace  Jeirett  Austin 

Bloomington,  Illinois 
Copyright  Applied  for 

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Dedicated  to  the  members  of 

Letitia  Qreen  Steuenson  Chapter,  D.  A.  R. 


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Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton— Patriot 

A COLONIAL  DRAMA  IN  THREE  ACTS 

By  Grace  Jewett  Austin 
Bloomington,  Illinois 
1919 


CHARACTERS 

Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  a patriotic  woman  of  Medford,  Mass, 
Betsy  Bradlee,  sister-in-law  of  Sarah. 

John  Fulton,  husband  of  Sarah. 

Nat  Bradlee,  husband  of  Betsy. 

: v » • - . . . i . . . i . c { . 1 

Paul  Revere,  well-known  Patriot. 

Mistress  Flucker,  Tory  woman. 

Lucy  FlUcker,  (later  Knox),  daughter  of  Mistress  Flucker, 
Parson  Emerson,  grandfather  of  the  Poet. 

Major  Brooks,  officer  of  the  Colonial  Army. 

General  George  Washington. 

Many  Patriots,  Villagers  and  Red-coats, 

' Time : During  American  Revolution. 

Place : Boston  and  Environs. 

a KJ 


Sarah  Brad  lee  Fulton,.  Fatrtot 


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ACT  l 
Scene.  L 

Place:  Colonial  kitchen  of  the  B radices',  in  Boston. 

Time:  December  15,  1773. 

( Fireplace  at  left,  window  af  rear,  entrance  at  right.  Prominent 
among  the  furniture  are  a long  fable  and  a spinning  wheel.) 

Entfr  Betsy  Bradlce  carrying  a large  iron  pot,  followed  by  Sarah 
Fulton  until  a basket  on  her  ami . 

Sarah,  Well  a day,  Betsy ; are  the  coals  low  ? We  must  heap  on 
fuel,  for  the  night  is  cold  and  the  chowder  must  be  hot. 

Betsy.  ( Bustling  about.)  How  quick  the  night  comes  on!  It’s 
candles  and  more  candles,  almost  before  the  noontide  chores  are  done. 

I wonder  if  Nat  hath  plenty  out  in  the  shop. 

Sarah,  Never  fear ; he  ll  pile  his  hearth  wi,th  knots  and  shavings 
—and  men  in  these  days  fret  not  for  too  much  light  upon  their  meetings. 

Betsy,  {Eagerly.)  What,  sister!  Brought  you  and  John  aught 
of  news  from  Medford?' 

Sarah.  Naught  save  of  the  temper  of  the  men  there.  The  Brit- 
ish rule  and  taxes  gall  them  more  each  day.  But  we  must  bestir  our- 
selves, sister,  and  quit  gossiping.  Chowder  by  my  rule  is  not  the  work 
of  a minute.  Here,  sit  ye,  sister,  and  peel  potatoes  and  onions  till 
ye  weep  for  Liberty,  ha ! ha !— Ah,  the  night  is  cold,  the  water-bucket  in 
the* corner  skims  over  with  ice,  and  the  kettle  will  be  slow  in  boiling. 
1*11  use  a double  pot-hook,  Betsy,  that  the  kettle  may  be  nearer  the  fire. 

Betsy.  Plague  on  these  onions,  Sally ! ’Tis  a pity  the  Lord  Gov- 
ernor doth  not  tax  these  in  place  of  tea.  I have  a bitter  dislike  of  old 
sage-steepings,  and  the  men  will  not  taste  the  stuff.  . Nat  put  a jug  of 
cider  on  the  hearth  to  mull,  at  noon  hour.  ’Tis  the  nighest  to  hot  drink 
that  they’ll  get. 

Sarah.  {Runs  "to  reticule  and  holds  up  parcel.)  Say  not  so, 
Betsy.  Here’s  a packet  of  Liberty  Tea,— very  much  the  fashion  in 
Medford.  ’Tis  an  herb,  belike  you  know,  but  'tis  strong  and  comfort- 
ing. Now  where’s  the  trivet  and  the  spider?  You  shall  smell  the 
°ood  hot  bacon  frizzling.  ’Twill  relieve  the  onion  tears.  Ah,  Betsy, 
you  have  peeled  a goodly  bowlful,  and  the  water  boils.  In  they  go, 
with  salt  and  pepper,  proper  portions. — Now  the  hiss  of  bacon  and  fat. 

Betsy.  ’Tis  a queer  mixture.  Think  you  the  men  will  like  it? 


CO LONIAL  DR  A M A 

SARAH  BRADLEE  FULTON:  PATRIOT 

HA' 

GRACE  JEWETT  AUSTIN 


UNDER  THE  AUSPICES  OF 

the  LETTITA  GREEN  STEVENSON 
CHAPTER  OP  THE 
DAUGHTERS  OP  THE  AMERICA  N 
REVOLUTION 

JUiOO  MlNOTON,  I LI  .1X0 IS 


BENEFIT  OF  WOUNDED 
SOLDIERS  AND  SAILORS 
OF  MCLEAN  COUNTY 

STAGED  liY  MRS,  H.  C.  RODEN  HAUSER 


CHATTERTON  O P KR  A H O U S I 

FRIDAY  EVENING,  FEBRUARY  TWENTY-FIR^T 
NINETEEN  HUNDRED  NINETEEN 
AT  EIGHT  FIFTEEN  O’CLOCK. 


rjl 


THE  BOSTON  TEA  PARTY 
The  Boston  Tea  Party  struck  one  of  the  earliest  blows  to 
make  the  world  safe  for  Democracy . When  the  little  band 
of  Patriots,  disguised  as  “ Mohawks " ran  to  the  harbor 
boarded  the  “ Dartmouth ” and  other  tea-ships,  and  threw 
the  unjustly  taxed  tea  overboard , it  was  the  first  formal 
protest  against  monarchy. 

“No,  ne'er  was  mingled  such  a draught 
In  palace , hall  or  arbor, 

As  freemen  brewed,  and  tyrants  quaffed, 

That  night  in  Boston  Harbor!9' 

Holmes 

CAST  OF  CHARACTERS 

m order  of  entrance 

Betsy  Bradlee-  Sister-  m-law  of  Sarak  . Miss  Winifred  Rates 

Sarak  Bradlee  Fulton-  Colonial  matron 

Mrs.  H.  C.  Rodenkauser 


Paul  Revere  - W eil  known  Patriot Paul  Rogers 

Nat  Bradlee  - Husband  of  Betsy  . Harold  Brazelton 

Jokn  Fulton  - Huskand  of  Sarak  . . Artkur  Graves 


Patriots  W arren  Brown,  George  Monroe,  Roy 

Costigan,  Rickard  Calkoun,  William  Galford,  George 
Marton,  Emmett  Gunn. 

Mistress  Flucker  - Tory  neigkkor  in  Boston 

Miss  Lottie  Nelson 

Lucy  Flucker,  later  Mistress  Rnox,  daugkter  of  akove  - 

Miss  Etkel  G unn 

Parson  Emerson  - Grandfatker  of  tke  poet  . . . Earl  Back 


Golomal  women  and  neighbors,  also  Nurses 

Mrs.  Frank  Eberlem,  Ruth  Shepard,  Ellen  Margaret  Holton 
Gladys  Rogers,  K atherine  Lahey,  Eottie  Nelson,  A1  ma 

Otto. 

Major  Brooks  of  Washingtons  Staff  . Harry  Admire 

General  George  Washington  .....  E)r.  George  B.  Kelso 
Washington  s Staff  . . . Henry  Stanberry,  Harry  Admire 

Britishers  Members  of  Company  M. 

Frank  Eberlein,  Roland  Gee,  Harold  Livingston,  Charles 
Hastings,  Robert  Herr,  William  Galford 
Colonial  Lad Hohart  Lash 

Minuet  danced  hy 

Mrs.  Frank  Eherlem,  Misses  Winifred  Rates,  Ethel 
Gunn,  Grace  Craig,  Rather  me  Lahey,  Ruth  Shepard, 
Ellen  Llargaret  Holton,  Alma  Otto. 

Messrs.  Frank  Eherlem,  Emmett  Gunn,  Harold  B raze!- 
ton,  Paul  Rogers,  George  Marton,  William  Galford, 
Roy  Costigan,  Richard  Calhoun. 

Under  the  direction  of  Madeline  Mayes 

Indian  costumes  furnished  by  the  Red  Men  Lodge 
hdusic  by  Dornaus  Orchestra  and  McLean  County  Drum  Corps 
Miss  Gladys  Sims, 


Mrs.  Frank  Eberlein 


Soloist 

. . . . Prompter 


SYNOPSIS 

Act  L Scene  L Colonial  Kitchen  of  the  Bradlees  in 

Boston . 

Time:  Night  before  the  Boston  Tea  Party , Dec.  15,1773 

Scene  II,  Same  setting . Night  of  the  Tea  Party 

Act  II,  Scene  I.  Open  field  and  road  with  stone  wall 
Time : Lexington  Day  April  19 , 1775 

Scene  II,  Same  setting 
Time:  Bunker  Hill  Day,  June  17,  1775 
Note  In  this  scene  curtain  falls  for  a moment  and  rises 
on  same  scene  ten  hours  later, by  moonlight. 

Act  III,  Scene I.  Keeping  room  or parlo ) of  the  Pultons 
in  Mel  ford. 

Time : Evening  in  the  fall  of  1775 

Scene  II,  Same  setting 
Time : A few  weeks  later 

■ » ■'* *59 

' 


Printed  hT  Junioh  Red  Cross  Boys 
Blooming  ton  School  Psintshop 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


* 


Sarah.  Trust  to  me,  my  Betsy.  John  was  stall-fed  by  his  moth- 
er, and  bethought  no  such  cook  as  Madam  Fulton  ever  stepped,  but 
seven  he  doth  praise  my  chowder  with  extravagance.  Tis  an  Indian 
dish,  but  since  they  took  my  grandsire’s  scalp,  it  is  befitting  I should  get 
some  blessing  from  them.  Now  the  goodly  cod,  straight  from  Mar- 
tin’s wharf, — see  me  whack  it!  I would  it  were  an  enemy,  for  I’ll  slash 
and  slash  and  slash ! 

Betsy.  {Shocked.)  Hush,  sister, — you  make  cold  chills  creep 
o’er  me.  I fear  you  have  a war-like  spirit.  One  trickle  of  blood 
makes  me  faint  and  like  to  die. 

Sarah.  (Slozvly..)  I like  not  blood,-— but  bitter  do  I hate  our 
enemies. 

Betsy..  {Reprovingly^)  But  Parson  Emerson  hath  said— 

— Sounds  of  cheers  from  Bradlee's  shop  nearby,  with  shouting , 
“Down,  down  with  tyranny 7” 

Betsy.  ( With  a terrified  finger  at  her  lip.)  Oh,  hasten  the 
chowder  to  a finish,  Sally ! The  men  are  forgetting  all  prudence. 
Mistress  Matilda  Flucker  next  door  hath  a hungry  ear  for  what  she 
calls  “treason.’’ 

Sarah.  {Tasting  with  a long  spoon.)  Tis  ready  for  milk  now, 
Betsy  dear,  and  where  is  the  bag  of  pilot  bread  I brought  from  Med- 
ford ? My  father  hath  eaten  many  a bite  of  such  in  the  far  Indies.— 
Just  a mite  more  salt  and  pepper, — ’tis  a wonder  how  milk  eats  up  the 
salt. — Now, -'-now,  Betsy,  tasted  ye  ever  the  like  ? 

Betsy.  {With  a faraway  look.)  Tis  toothsome,  indeed, — but 
somehow  my  heart  is  heavy.  I like  not  these  quarrels  with  the  mother- 
country. 

Sarah.  ( Blows  her  a kiss.)  I know  thee— a-worrying  over  Nat. 
But  bethink  thee  how  quickly  Nat  and  all  his  crew  will  be  here,  hun- 
gry. Put  on  the  plates  and  trenchers  while  I brew  my  famous  “Liber- 
ty Tea?’  Put  on  plenty  of  apples  and  a heaping  dish  of  symballs— 
“doughnuts,”  my  mother-in-law  doth  call  them. 

( A resounding  rap  arid  a jovial  maids  head  appears  at  the  door.) 

Paul  Revere.  Greetings  to  ye,  Mistresses ! The  smell  of  ye 
good  supper  penetrates  even  to  the  shop,  and  Master  Nat  bade  me  in- 
quire if  all  be  ready. 

Betsy.  {Curtseys,  speaks  brightly.)  Ready  enough,  Neighbor 
Revere, — bid  them  come  at  once  and  seek  their  places.  {Exit  Revere.) 


4 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


Betsy.  Oh,  the  trampling ! Have  ye  enough  to  feed  ’em,  Sarah  ? 

Sarah.  Enough  for  a regiment  of  valiant  ‘‘Sons  of  Liberty.” 

Betsy.  Oh,  «h — sh,  don’t  speak  it! 

( Door  opens,  men  in  colonial  dress  enter , — not  court  dress , but 
dress  of  men  front  serious  zuork .) 

General  Chorus.  Greetings,  Mistress  Bradlee ! 

Nat  Bradlee.  And  I think  ye  all  know  my  sister  Sarah,  Mis- 
tress Fulton  from  Medford.  She’s  good  enough  for  John  Fulton  here, 
and  that’s  a mighty  worthy  recommendation. 

Sarah.  Be  still  with  ye,  Nat,  and  get  these  cold  hungry  folk  down 
to  business.  ’Tis  a raw  December  night,  forsooth.-^N'ow,  good  sirs, 
ye’re  to  try  an  Indian  dish, — fish  chowder — maybe  you’ve  oft  eaten  it 
elsewhere,  but  they  say  there’s  a special  kink  in  mine. 

Several  Men.  ( Heartily .)  Good  stuff! — Our  praise  to  ye,  Mis- 
tress ! 

Nat.  I’ll  kiss  ye  for  this,  sister,  when  my  bowl  is  done. 

Revere.  Methinks  that’s  a sauce  we’d  all  like  to  share,  if  ’twere 
not  robbing  Squire  Fulton. 

Sarah.  Crack  all  the  jokes  ye  wish,  men,  if  later  yell  drink  a 
toast  with  me  in  Liberty  Tea,  that  I brought  from  Medford. 

Nat.  ( Starting  up.)  Not  Bohea,  gal?  None  of  that  in  my 
house. 

Betsy.  Soft,  Nat.  ’Tis* herb  of  loose-strife,  all  the  rage  in  Med- 
ford. 

Nat.  Well,  serve  it  up — and  tell  your  toast.  I reckon  well  it 
won’t  be  to  the  King. 

Sarah.  Nay,  brother,  that  it  will  tiot  be.  And  yet,  bethink  thee 
well  before  ye  drink  :—To  the  King’s  Tea— May  it  steep  in  Boston  Har- 
bor! 

John  Fulton.  (Starts  Up.)  Wife, — wife. — what  is  this? 

Sarah.  Ay,  “Sons  of  Liberty”  you  are,  and  sit  by  the  fire  like 
tame  tabbies!  Up,  I say,  when  there’s  a deed  at’jrour  door  right  ach- 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


in g to  be  done.  I do  not  call  to  bloodshed — go  as  red  savages,  if  ye 
■will,  but  go,  I say,  and  drown  the  cursed  tea  ten  fathoms  deep! 

( The  men  start  to  their  feet , with  cups  of  steaming  herb  stuff  m 
their  hands.) 

Revere.  '(Leaps  lightly  on  the  table.)  Well  said,  Mistress  b ni- 
ton. Ye’ve  invited  us  to  a tea-party,  the  like  of  which  was  never  seen 
before, — but  by  my  faith,  I will  accept — with  pleasure ! 

Others.  (Shouting.)  And  II  And  II  And  11 

Revere.  (Jumps  from  table,  bows  low  to  ladies,  who  curtsey.) 
Thanks  for  that  doughtv  dhowder,  fair  ladies,  which  has  filled  us  ready 
for  great  deeds.  We’ll  to  the  shop  and  plot  and  plan  details  of  next 
night’s  party.  (Exit  men.) 

Betsy.  (Sinks  in  a chair  and  covers  eyes.)  They’ll  all  be  killed, 
— O Sarah,  what  will  become  of  us? 

Sarah.  (Erect,  with  iron  spoon  in  hand.)  Betsy  Bradlee,  be- 
have thyself  1 There’s.  good  chowder  left  for  thee  and  me,  and  when 
we’ve  eaten,  we’ll  be  brave  and  worthy  “Daughters  of  Liberty.” 

CURTAIN . 


ACT  I 
Scene  II. 

Place : Same  setting,  the  Bradlee’s  kitchen,  in  Boston. 

Time:  One  night  later,  December  16,  1773. 

Curtain  rises  on  N at  and  Betsy  Bradlee. 

Nat.  (Standing  before  the  fire.)  Well,  little  woman,  it  grows 
late, — and  soon  the  “Mohawks  will  be  gathering.  John  and  Saiali 
are  coming,  with  Sarah  on  the  pillion  behind,  and  then  we  two  will  get 
on  the  war-paint  and  feathers. 

Betsy.  (Leaves  spinning  wheel  whirring,  runs  to  him.)  Nat, 
you  will  be  careful,  careful?  There  is  great  uneasiness  in  me  about 
this  night’s  work  is  it  stealing  from  the  King  ? 

Nat.  (Stoutly.)-  Not  so,  in  -faith \ Mis  but  a gentle  blow,  to 
let  him  know  this  sleepy  colony  is  waking.  Have  no  fears,  little  wife, 
but  keep  up  the  fire,  and  heat  water,  so  we  may  get  again  a Christian 
skin. 


6 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,.  Patriot 


( Sounds  of  horse  and  rider.)  “Whoa,  whoa,  there  VT  (Sarah, 
rushes  in,  much  bundled  with  wraps.) 

Sarah.  Oh,  the  cold  riding  ? Were  I not  wrapped  so  deep,  you 
would  have  to  seat  me  in  the  snow-bank,  to  thaw.  ( More  seriously.) 
Be  careful  of  your  windows,  before  you  and  John  put  on  the  disguise. 
In  yonder  there  is  a wide  chink  between  the  shutters.  I saw  you  and 
Betsy  plainly  from  without. 

Nat.  The  shutters  are  old  and  shrunken.  Each  year  I plan  to 
make  others,  but  the  shoemaker’s  family  always  goeth  unshod.  Betsy, 
bring  a quilt  and  I’ll  tack  it  over  the  window. 

/ ( John  Fulton  enters  stamping,  throws  down  bundle  which  clanks.) 

John.  Hatchets,  blankets,  feathers  and  red  and  yellow  ochre, — 
was* that  all  Revere  told  us  >to  bring?  My  faith,  we  may  all  go  to  scalp- 
ing before  the  morn. 

Betsy.  (With  quilt,  shrieks. ) Scalping!!! 

Sarah.  Sh — sh,  sister;  know  you  not  how  John  loveth  a jest  in 
all  times  unseasonable  ? At  old  Madam  Pierce’s  funeral  he  did  whisper 
Twas  a wonder  if  the  good  dinner  they  served  would  not  make  her 
rise, — she  was  that  pinching  of  a penny. 

Nat.  (Climbing  down  from  window1.)  Now  let’s  to  our  disguis- 
ing, that  when  the  Mohawks  give  the  owl-hoot,  we  may  straightway  be 
gone. 

Betsy.  ’Tis  a bitter  night  to  go  without  mufflers. 

Nat.  Aye,  but  wife,  red  and  yellow  are  warm  colors, — know  ye 
not  that  ? And  within  we  each  carry  a fire — ’tis  indignation — that  will 
warm  us  well.  (Has  slipped  on  disguise,  begins  to  dance  and  leave 
hatchet.)  Hi-yi ! Hi-yi  1 — the  murthering  band  I 

Sarah.  (Severely.)  Have  ye  no  sense,  Nat?  This  is  a job  for 
stillness  like  the  grave,  unless  ye  wish  your  bones  to  clank  on  Gallows 
Hill. 

Betsy.  (Wails.)  O Nathaniel, — gallows! 

Nat.  (Bends  to  kiss  her,  leaves  smudges  of  paint  on  her  cheeks.) 
Cheer  up,  my  girl,  now  ye’re  branded  as  the  Mohawk’s  bride.  (Sound 
of  hooting,  thrice, — silence,— then  thrice  again.  All  stand  hushed.) 

Sarah.  (Goes  to  door  and  opens  cautiously.)  Enter,  Friends. 


A Colonial  Drama  in  T hrel  Acts 


r 

( Voice  outside .)  “Darken  the  lights.” 

Sarah.  Forsooth  what  a fool  I ami  ( Puts  out  candles,  only 
f.r-e -light  left;  opens  door  slozvly.) 

Revere.  ( Stalking  in  until  seven  other  “Mohazvks,"  low  tone.) 
All  here? — Now,  out  the  back  way  in  the  greatest  stillness;  -not  in 
company,  but  one,  then  one,  then  one,  and  so  on,  at  a sufficient  distance 
from  one  another.  Meet  first  at  Old  South  Church,  bide  in  the  shadow, 
snd  when  the  gathering  of  patriots  is  at  fever  heat— dash  inside.  Well 
shout,  “Boston  Harbor  a teapot  tonight !”— then  make  a rush  for  Ont- 
fin’s  wharf  and  the  old  ship  Dartmouth.  It  will  be  ill  luck  if  nigh 
400  tea-chests  be  not  soon  well  smashed  and  floating  overboard,  is  all 
understood  ? In  trouble,  give  the  owl-hoot  signal.  Gather  not  after 
the  deed,  but  each  at  home  be  soon  abed,  lest  there  be  searching. 
Wash  away  paint  and  burn  the  feathers.  Is  all  ready?  Mistresses, 
farewell! 

(John  and  Nat  go  last,  each  ivith  a silent  fareivell  in  the  dim  room 
to  his  wife.  Sarah  lights  candles,  gets  out  a great  kettle  and  fills  it 
with  water.)  . / 

Betsy.  ( Runs  to  windozu,  pulls  aside  guilt  and  tries  to  see  out , 
moans.)  Oh,  the  bitter  frost!  And  belike  the  soldiers  are  guarding 
the  tea  with  flintlocks  and  bayonets.  (She  turns  and  sinks  into  a chair , 
her  head  on  her  lap,  weeping.  Omit  drops  to  floor  unnoticed.) 

Sarah.  ( Begins  to  sing  a verse  of  a Psalm  (8 1st.  Common 
Metre)  : 

‘'‘Sing  loud  to  God  our  strength;  with  joy 
To  God  of  Jacob  sing, 

Take  up  a psalm,  the  pleasant  harp, 

Timbrel  and  psaltery  bring.” 

i 

Sing  with  me,  Betsy;  'twill  lift  up  your  heart.  My  good  mother 
always  counseled  that,  in  times  of  low  spirit,  and  my  grandam  hath  told 
me  how  once  in  the  block  house,  besieged  by  savages,  they  did  sing  until 
succor  came  from  Plymouth. 

Betsy.  My  throat  is  all  choked.  I could  not  sing  if  I died  for 
not  singing. 

Sarah.  Well,  at  least  help  me  fill  the  big  pot  to  wash  our  Indians 
into  white  Christians  again.  Here,  there  are  good  coals,— why  not  fill 
the  warming  pans  ? The  sea- wind  blows  chill  tonight.  1 11  brew  some 
of  that  drink  were  all  learning  to  like, — the  Indie  Coffee, — ’twill  be  so 
before  long  we  would  not  take  tea  if  they  begged  us  to  have  it. 


g 


Sarah  Bradt.ee  Fulton,.  Patriot 


{Rap  at  the  door.  Bets y runs  and.  clutches  Sarah , zvho  shakes  her 
off  sternly  and  points  to  the  spinning  wheel.  Betsy  rims  to'it  and  sets 
it  whirring.  Sarah  opens  door  cautiously1.  \ 

Sarah.  Oh,  ’tis  yon,  Mistress  Flucker  f Come  m by  the  fire. 

Mistress  Flucker, — bent,  wrinkled  old  woman , shawl-wrapped,, 
with  peering  eyes.  Good  evening  to  yon,  mistresses.  I see  ye’ve  got 
the  big  pot  out, — no  pig-sticking  on  hand  likely  at  this  time  o’  year  ? 

Sarah.  {Calmly .)  ’T  would  be  no  bad  time,  for  ’tis  good  keep- 
ing weather,  and  the  chine  and  spare1ribs  taste  well  in  winter  cold. 

Mistress  Flucker.  Did  ye  say  ye  were  pig  killin’  ? 

Sarah.  No,  Mistress  Flucker,  I did  not.  Fm  thinking  of  hulling 
corn.  My  mother-in-law  doth  thribble  it,  and  ’tis  a mighty  fine  flavor, 
though  it  takes  long  doing. 

Mistress  Flucker.  I have  not  the  stomach  for  hulled  corn.  In 
old  England — where,  praise  God,  I am  about  to  go, — we  never  eat  those 
savage  dishes, 

Sarah,  No,  nor  roast  turkey,  oysters,  cranberry  sauce,  and  other 
bounteous  dishes  of  the  colonies.  ’Tis  a pity  ye  must  leave  them. 

Mistress  Flucker.  {Huffed.)  Ye  need  waste  no  pity.  ’Tis 
not  next  door  I’ll  be  then  to  a common  carpenter,  with  all  the  riff-raff 
of  Boston  shouting  and  tramping  about.  I’ll  leave  ye,  mistresses,  to 
your  hulled  corn , but  I must  say  ’tis  strange  the  making  of  it  should 
make  yon  spinner  sit' all  doubled  up,  a weeping.  That’s  all  I have  to 
say,  though  there  are  mighty  strange. works  around  this  house.  {Exit 
Mrs.  Flucker.) 

Sarah.  Oh,  the  cjuilt!  Careless  Betsy  and  careless  me  for  not 
noting  its  fall.  I’ll  warrant  her  eyes  were  glued  to  the  crack  for  a 
half-hour.  I’ll  go  to  the  shop  for  nails  and  make  it  fast. 

{Quick  knock  and  entrance  of  lovely  girl.) 

Lucy  Flucker.  ' O Mistress  Bradlee, — what  is  on  foct  tonight  ? 
Was^-was  Henry  Knox  with  you,  but  a half  hour  since? 

Betsy.  {Stammers.)  Why, — why — Lucy — 

Sarah.  {Comes  and  puts  arm  around  Betsy.)  Is  this  Miss  Lucy 
Flucker  from  next  door?  Thy  mother  was  with  us,  within  the  last  half 
hour. 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


9 


Lucy.  ( Breathlessly .)  Oh, — not  with  mother, — I mean  before 
that  Oh,  I am  so  affrighted}  I— I watched  for  Henry,  by  the  lilac 
bush  in  the  back  yard,  where  oft  he  gives  me  but  an  evening  word.. 
You  will  not  think  it  wrong,  dear  mistresses, — for  oh,  he  is  so  noble, 
though  my  father  and  mother  do  hate  him  sore-.  And  I saw, — Oh,  was 
it  Indians  come  out  this  door?  And  one — with  Henry’s  voice  and  car- 
riage— stopped  and  whispered  a sweet  word  and  then  was  gone!  O 
pity  me,  and  tell  me  lest  I die  of  fear J 

Sarah.  And  thou’ll  say  naught,  if  on  thy  silence  hangs  brave 
lives? 

Lucy.  ( Clasps  her  hands.)  I’ll  do  naught  but  pray. 

Sarah.  Thou  knowest  of  the  “Dartmouth”  and  the  other  tea* 
ships,  loaded  down  with  taxes  we  must  pay  ? But,  Lucy,  we  shall  never 
pay  them,  for  that  brave  band  you  saw  will  make  a tea-pot  of  all  Bos- 
ton Harbor. 

Lucy.  ( Curtseys  and  dances .)  Oh,  the  splendid  deed!  Would 
We  were  along  to  see ! But  is  there  no  danger? 

Sarah.  ( Calmly .)  Danger?  Yes;  but  every  patriot  must  meet 
it,  and  we  women  must  stand  firmly  by  their  side.  Go  homeward,  Lucy 
dear,  that  your  mother  may  not  seek  you.  Look  as  calm  as  if  you  had 
been  berry-picking —but  O Lucy,  do  pray  for  them  all! 

(They  embrace , Lacy  bends  to  kiss  weeping  Betsy , and  exit.  ) 

Betsy.  ( Fearfully .)  How  loud  the  clock  doth  tick,  Sally!  Is 
it  an  omen?  Oh,  how  I wish  they  all  were  safely  back! 

Sarah.  ’Twill  not  be  long  now.  Hush,  Betsy,  did  you  hear  a 
step  outside?— Oh,  there  is  John’s  double  rap!  I will  be  cautious.  O 
Betsy,  put  out  the  candle. 

( She  opens  door  car ef idly  and  two  ” Indians'  slip  in.  Nat  tak^s 
Betsy  in  his  arms  and  John  bestows  a kiss  on  Sarah.) 

v 

John  Fulton.  ( Speaks  low.)  ’Tis  done,  girls,  and  well  done. 
Hot  an  ounce  o’  the  wretched  stuff  is  left  for  Mistress  Flucker  s tea- 
pot next  door.  Were  ye  anxious? 

Betsy.  (Sobs.)  I’ve  been  nigh  to  death  with  worry. 

Sarah.  (Stoutly.)  Not  I.  I trust  our  men  and  our  cause  too 
much.  They  simply  cannot  fail.  But  John  and  Nat,  I distrust  Mistress 
Flucker  next  door,  and  I would  you  looked  like  Christian  men  as  swift- 


10 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


ly  as  possible.  Betsy  and  I will  go  to  bed,  and  leave  you  boys  the  warm 
kitchen.  There’s  chowder  hot  in  yon  little  pot,  and  yonder’s  the 
doughnut  jar. 

Nat.  (Waving  hatchet.)  Come  on,  girls, — a kiss  first,  or  we’ll 
scalp  ye!  (Betsy  rushes  to  Nat , Sarah  runs  away , laughing.) 

Sarah.  Tend  to  your  washing,  boys.  You’ll  have  to  hang  on  to 
your  own  scalps  if  I get  hold  of  you. 


CURTAIN . 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


11 


ACT  II 
Scene  I 

Place : Open  road  and  fields,  with  stone  wall. 

Time : Lexington  Day,  April  19,  1775. 

{Enter  from  different  directions,  walking  hurriedly,  Sarah  Fulton 
and  Betsy  Bradlee,  the  latter  carrying  a sleeping  infant.) 

Sarah.  O Betsy,  I saw  you  coming.  You  must  be  dead  tired! 
Didn’t  you  know  Nat  sent  me  word  to  come  to  you  ? 

Betsy.  {Half  sobbing.)  I know  he  did.  William  Dawes  said  he 
was  going  to  ride  after  Paul  Revere  and  see  that  m>  harm  came  to  him. 
So  Nat  told  him  the  message.  Then  Nat  went  himself  to  Lexington,  to 
help  guard  Mr.  Hancock  and  Mr.  Adams.  But,  O Sally, — they  say 
Boston  is  going  to  be  shut  up,  and  I was  so  afraid  Nat  would  be  shut 
out,  and  I wouldn’t  know  if  he  were  alive  or  dead.  I thought  I’d  get 
a ride  with  a farmer,  but  I’ve  walked  and  walked  till  I’m  nearly  dead. 
Oh,  this  heavy  baby ! 

{Sarah  takes  the  baby,  Betsy  staggers  over  by  a bush,  sinks  dozm.) 

Sarah.  Now  what’s  to  be  done,  I wonder?  We’re  nearer  Boston 
than  Medford.  She  never  could  walk  there  in  all  the  world.  And  yet 
she  mustn’t  lie  here.  The  ground  is  damp  in  April,  and  the  Britishers 
may  come  back  this  very  road.  Sh-sh,  little  Nat,  don’t  you  go  to  add- 
ing a stew  to  the  trouble.  I wonder  if  Betsy  got  that  right  about  shut- 
ting up  Boston?  Oh,  if  there  isn’t  Parson  Emerson  a coming!  He’s  a 
good  helper  in  time  of  need. 

{She  curtseys  as  best  she  can,  with  the  baby.) 

Sir,  you  perchance  do  not  remember  Mistress  Fulton  of  Medford, 
but  .she  remembers  thy  goodly  discourses.  I am  in  sore  anxiety,  for 
this,  my  sister-in-law,  of  thy  parish,  Mistress  Bradlee,  lies  here  ex- 
hausted by  a walk  from  town,  and  can  go  no  farther  till  she  rests.  But 
it  seems  to  me  the  roadway  is  not  safe  for  her. 

Parson  Emerson.  Good  Day,  Mistress  Fulton.  I remember  your 
countenance  well,  and  your  sister.  Suppose  we  go  behind  yon  stone 
wall,  spread  down  my  camlet  cloak  upon  a sun-dried  spot,  and  you  and 
I will  bear  the  poor  lady  thither.  Providence  has  granted  us  bars  to 
let  down,  else  we  might  have  had  hard  task  to  climb  the  wall. 

Sarah.  Kind  Sir,  you  are  most  thoughtful.  I will  steam  and 
press  the  garment  if  it  gains  aught  of  wrinkles.  O poor  Betsy ! It 
seems  to  me  almost  more  like  a faint  than  sleep. 


12 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,.  Patriot 


Parson.  (Hastily.)  Bat  rouse  her  not,  and  let  ns  also  kneel  be- 
hind the  wall.  I thought  the  distant  sound  of  shots  did  reach  my  ear.. 

Sarah.  Oh,  the  panic  of  the  night ! We  were  in  the  sound  sleep 
of  midnight  when  the  great  galloping  came,  and  Paul  Revere’s  voice 
shouting  so  loud  it  seemed  in  my  very  ears,  “Get  up,  and  arm— the  regu- 
lars are  coming l Arm!  Arm F He  smashed  his  whip  end  against 
our  door, — I can  think  just  how  his  horse  was  rearing  at  the  step— -and 
shouted,  “Up,  Mohawk’  ’Tis  a greater  sport  than  tea!’— for,  Sir,  I 
think  ’tis  known  who  made  the  great  tea-party  in  Boston,  and  the 
Mohawks  are  mighty  proud  of  themselves. 

Parson  Emerson.  And  went  your  husband?  Where,  then? 

Sarah,  He  started  for  Concord,  to  protect  the  military  stores. 
God  grant  our  men  success, — those  rascally  Britishers  ! 

Parson  Emerson.  Amen.  But,  Mistress,  there  are  shots  and 
sound  of  running  feet  I 

Sarah.  Oh,  I see  red,— 'tis  red  coats  coming!  O Parson,— had 
1 but  my  father’s  gun  1 

Parson  Emerson.  Xay,  sister, — ’tis  no  main  line  coming, — only 
a few  scattering  remnants.  We  have  no  arms  and  we  must  let  them 
pass.  Bethink  of  the  mother  and  child  in  our  charge. 

Sarah.  Oh,  see  ’em  run, — the  cowards  l I must  just  yell,  Par- 
son, if  I cannot  shoot. 

(Leans  over  wall , unheeded  by  running  men  and  shouts)  : Down 

with  King  George! 

CURTAIN. 

ACT  II 
Scene  II 

Place : Same  as  in  preceding  scene. 

Time : Bunker  Hill  Day,  June  17,  1775. 

(Drifting  smoke  and  sounds  of  guns.  Sarah , hatless,  sleeves 
rolled  up,  stands  planted  in  the  road,  talking  to  Revere,  Nat  Bradlee 
and  John  Fulton.) 

Sarah.  And  why  not  bring  them  hither,  sirs,-^poor  wounded  fel- 
lows? 'Twas  here  in  April  I succored  my  fainting  sister  and  learned 
the  resources  of  this  place.  The  clear  cold  water  is  abundant  and  the 
shade  is  good.  The  wounded  must  not  be  left  on  the  field  and  they 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


13 


cannot  be  taken  into  Boston.  They  come  from  many  towns.  Per- 
chance here  we  can  refresh  many  so  that  with  aid  they  can  return 
homeward. 

Revere.  A good  idea,  Mistress  Fulton,  and  I for  one  will  help 
it  on.  I bring  you  word  from  General  Prescott  that  you  ana  your 
neighbor  women  are  to'  be  in  charge  till  the  battle  be  over.  Not  a sur- 
geon can  be  spared  from  the  fight. 

Sarah.  Well,  Mr.  Revere,  here  I’ll  stand  till  the  duty’s  done. 
I’ve  a bushel  of  lint  and  bandages  here,  and  the  women  of  Medford 
have  met  in  the  meeting  house  to  make  more. 

Revere.  Who  is  that  coming  yonder  ? 

Sarah.  Good;  ’tis  Parson  Emerson.  I know  he  wished  to  fight, 
but  he  is  far  too  feeble.  He  will  help  us  women  greatly,  in  comforting 
the  wounded.  Ah,  here  come  my  neighbors  ? 

( Women  bustle  in,  followed  by  Betsy , wiping  her  eyes.) 

Sarah.  O Betsy,  Betsy,— cork  your  tear-bottle.  Instead  of  weep- 
ing, fill  that  water-pail  at  the  brook,  and  lay  those  bandages  by  sizes. 
Jane  and  Mary,  did  ye  bring  the  basins  that  I told  ye?  Yes,  yes  men, 

go,  of  course,  where  Prescott  waits,  and  glory.  I would  I could  take 

a gun  and  go  along. 

Revere.  Do  come  along,  Mistress  Fulton.  Heaid  ye  never  of 
Joan  of  Arc,  in  my  father's  country, — how  she  led  the  hosts  to  victory? 

Sarah.  Never  fear,  I’ll  lead  my  host — o petticoats!  Ah,  Parson 
Fmerson  we  welcome  you  indeed.  It  puts  us  in  mind  of  Lexington 
Day,— and  here  is  our  Betsy,  Mistress  Bradlee,  stronger  now  than  then. 

Betsy.  ( Drops  pail  and  rushes.)  O Nat,  Nat,  Nat,— are  you  go- 
ingp Just  hear  the  guns!  I thought  you  were  to  stay  and  help  with 
wounded  men. 

Nat.  Good  bye,  girl.  Keep  up  a brave  heart.  I must  see  a bit 
how  things  are  going  at  the  front.  We  left  Jhe  hill  as  Prescott  s mes- 
sengers, and  to  make  arrangements  with  Sarah.  Sweetheart,  don  t 
make  me  cross, — I must  go,— Sarah ! 

Sarah.  Busy,  Nat.  O Betsy,  come  and  help;  I Cannot  lift  this. 

Parson  Emerson.  ( Goes  and  takes  Betsy’s  hand.)  Good  morn- 
ing, Mistress  Bradlee —see,  we  must  help  Mistress  Fulton.  Success  to 
our  cause,  Bradlee.  My  prayers  go  with  you. 


14 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


(Nat  plants  a quick  kiss  on  his  wife's  cheek  and  runs  after  the  other 
two  men.  Sounds  of  attack  renewed.  Betsy  stands  despairingly  and 
holds  her  ears.  Parson  Emerson  looks  up,  as  in  prayer.) 

Sarah.  ( Hurries  over,  gives  Betsy  a little  shake.)  Betsy,  Betsy, 
— let  our  parson  pray,  but  we  must  be  at  work.  The  men  will  fight  and 
we  must  mend  the  fighters.  Courage,  Betsy!  God  will  care  for  Nat, 
and  God  will  surely  help  our  country, 

(Curtain  fails,  to  rise  almost  immediately.) 

UENV.OI 

(Same  scene,  ten  hours  later,  by  moonlight.  Rows  of  form's  on 
stretchers  lie  across  the  field.  W omen  are  mozring  about  and  bending 
over  them.  At  the  front,  clasping  hands,  stand  John  and  Sarah  Fulton, 
at  the  side,  Nat  holds  in  his  arms  the  weeping  Betsy.) 

Sarah.  (In  a hushed  voice.)  Thank  God,  you  could  again  bring 
Frescott’s  word!  Tell  him  three  hundred  have  been  cared  for;  many 
have  gone  to  their  homes, — and  some,  O John, — some  are  gone  on  the 
long  journey. 

John.  Brave  girl,  brave  Sarah ! We’ve  surely  fought  this  long 
day  out  together. 

CURTAIN. 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


15 


ACT  III 
Scene  I 

Place : Handsome  colonial  “keeping  room”  of  the  Fulton  home  in 

Medford. 

Time : An  evening  in  the  fall  of  1775. 

( John  Fulton , disabled  with  rheumatism,  sits  with  bandaged  foot 
propped  upon  a chair,  Betsy  sits  near,  Sarah  moves  about.) 

Sarah.  ( Pokes  the  fire.)  ’Tis  good  indeed,  to  see  ye,  Betsy.  I 
had  thought  that  when  ’twas  known  John  was  laid  by  with  rheumatism, 
you  might  make  it  in  your  way  to  come.  Now  if  Nat  were  here,  and 
there  was  fresh  fish  in  the  house  for  chowder,  we  might  have  an  evening 
as  fine  as  the  Boston  Tea  Party. 

Betsy.  Oh,  speak  not. of  that,  sister!  I shudder  yet  to  think  of 
the  Mohawks  and  the  risks  they  ran.  Tell  me, — can  you  still  relish  the 
chowder  as  of  old  ? 

Sarah.  To  be  sure,  I do.  Pm  hungry  for  it  now.  Why,  Betsy 
— girl, — our  men  are  heroes,— John  and.  Nat  and  Mr.  Revere  and  the 
others.  Would  you  have  them  sit  by  the  fire  and  spin  f 

John.  (Grumpily.)  A big  hero  I look  like  now. 

Sarah.  Never  fear,  John.  Betsy  has  brought  the  marigold  blos- 
soms that  I sent  for,  and  I have  great  faith  that  well  steeped,  they  will 
do  you  much  good.  A warm  drink  is  steeping  by  the  fire  now, — and 
speaking  of  fires  reminds  me  the  fire  burns  low.  We  have  much  to  talk 
of  tonight,  and  we  must  keep  warm'  and  cheery.  Betsy,  help  me  roll  on 
a log.  We  miss  our  good  fireman  yonder. 

John.  (Growls.)  Always  can  tell  a woman’s  fire, — -doesn’t  lie 
right.  Seems  to  me  I might  put  that  on — ouch! ! 

Sarah.  Now,  John, — you  see  what  a fix  you  get  into.  Sit  still 
and  be  thankful  for  a “woman’s  fire.”  Come,  Betsy,  this  is  a woman’s 
log,  anyway, — as  John  will  have  to  admit, — and  a big  one. 

(They  roll  it  on  together,  with  difficulty.) 

Betsy.  Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that,  Sarah  ? 

* 

Sarah.  La,  haven’t  you  heard  the  tale  of  the  wood  I bought? 
Maybe  John  had  better  tell  it. 


16 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


John.  Tell  ahead,  and  I’ll  add  trimmings,  if  necessary.  I thought 
surely  Nat  would  have  gotten  hold  of  that  yarn. 

Sarah.  Sh-sh-sh-,  John ! 

Betsy.  ( Grabs  her  handkerchief  and  sobs.)  But  I haven  t seen 
Nat  for  eight  long  weeks.  He’s  with  General  Washington. 

John.  And  so  would  I be,  but  for  this  plaguey  leg. 

Sarah.  Now,  John,— nothing  but  honor  for  that  leg,  since  you 
caught  rheumatism  in  the  trenches.  Well,  let’s  amuse  Betsy  with  the 
tale,  and — Elizabeth- Shaw-Bradlee  (shakes  her  finger  at  her),  if  you 
don’t  put  away  that  ’kerchief  and  laugh,  I’ll  never  tell  you  another  one. 
It  was  but  a fortnight  ago,  one  bright  morning.  I was  giving  this  room 
a great  going  over,  with  my  head  tied  up  in  an  apron.  I d just  dusted- 
the  spinet,  and  leaned  out  the  window — so — to  shake  my  duster,  when  I 
saw  John  coming  hobbling  along  as  fast  as  he  could  go.  Now,  John, 
you  tell  too.  We  can  tell  it  better  together. 

John.  ( Leans  forward  and  speaks  with  energy.)  Why,  I said, 
“Sarah,  Sarah, — there’s  an  ox  load  o’  wood  coming  past  pretty  soon  that 
ye  want  to  watch  out  for.  It’s  a sham  load,  and  the  middle  of  it  is  full 
of  food  and  ammunition  for  the  Yankee  boys  at  Cambridge. 

Sarah.  Then  I nigh  had  a spasm.  I knew  there  was  a batch  o’ 
Britishers  down  the  road  apiece,  getting  cider  and  whatnot  at  old 
Madam  Page’s.  I wish  her  stuff  would  choke  her ! I was  so  excited 
that  I just  shouted  out  of  the  window, — “John  Fulton,  get  right  up  on 
your  horse!  I’ll  boost  you  if  ye  can’t  make  it— and  go  out  along  the 
road  till  you  meet  that  wood  and  buy  it.  If  it  s private  property  the 
King’s  men  won’t  be  so  ready  to  take  it,  and  later  we’ll  find  a way  to 
send  the  inside  stuff  on  to  our  boys.  Now,  John,  tell. 

John.  Well,  I did  as  Sally  told  me  to,  as  any  good  husband 
should.  I tell  ye  this  old  leg  put  up  some  twinges.  The  young  fellow 
who  was  driving  the  oxen— Deacon  Flagg’s  son  Josiah— was  only  too 
glad  to  get  a sort  o’  reinforcement,  and  we  started  towards  home  at  a 
pretty  fair  gait,  Tosiah  prodding  the  oxen  with  the  goad,  and  I a-holding 
back  the  mare,  that  always  did  hate  to  go  slow  when  she  was  headed  to- 
wards home. 

Sarah.  Yes,— and  there  was  I,  with  my  apron  over  my  head,  out 
in  the  front  yard  watching,  with  my  heart  way  up  here  in  my  throat. 

Betsy.  They  might  have  shot  John,— those  unrighteous  British- 
ers ! 


i 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


17 


Sarah.  Pshaw!  It. wasn’t  shooting, — it  was  stealing  that  I was 
worried  about.  I knew  our  boys  needed  every  shot  and  every  loaf  that 
was  hidden  in  the  wood. 

John.  Well,  we  hove  in  sight  of  home,  and  sure  enough,  there 
was  Sarah  in  her  apron. 

Sarah.  But  worse  than  any  kitchen  apron, — there  were  twenty 
red-coats,  a coming  on  the  gallop.  They  all  met  right  out  there,  Betsy, 
in  front  o’  the  gate.  John  got  down  and  opened  it,  but  up  gallops  Mr. 
Officer,  big  as  life,  and  pulls  out  a sword  and  says,  “Not  so,  driver ; keep 
on  straight  to  Boston.”  Josiah’s  always  a meek  chap,  and  he  raised  his 
goad,  so  I saw  it  was  time  for  me  to  take  a hand.  Now,  John,  you  be 
the  British  captain ! 

John.  Humph, — a pretty  part  to  play!  -Well,  maybe  these  pesky 
rheumatics  make  me  about  grumpy  enough. 

* 

Sarah.  Well,  I- dared  right  up  to  him,  brave  as  a turkey-cock,  and 
I said,  “Here,  where  are  you  going  to  take  that  wood?  It’s  mine,  and 
you  have  no  right  to  take  it.” 

John.  ( Gruff  and  stern.)  “Taken  in  the  King’s  name,  Madam.” 

Sarah.  ( Viciously .)  “King  fiddlesticks!  If  fat  George  wants 
any  wood,,  let  him:  go  out  and  cut  it.  He  will  not  have  mine.”  You 
would  have  laughed  to  see  Josiah  Flagg.  He  stood  on  one  .foot,  and 
then  on.’tother,  just  about  addled. 

John.  (Curtly.)  “Drive  on.” 

Sarah.  Yes,  that’s  what  the  Britisher  said.  I saw  we  weren’t 
making  headway,  so  I just  grabbed  the  nigh  ox  by  the  horns  and  began 
to  pull  him  towards  our  path.  I was  brought  up  to  manage  oxen  and  I 
was  no  more  afraid  of  them  thaml  was  of  the  Britishers.  Holding  on 
as  tight  as  I could,  I called  out,  “Josiah,  don’t  you  dare- to  drive  on !” 

John.  ( Raising  his  cane ; thunders  out.)  “Woman,  stand  back, 
or  I’ll  order  my  men  to  fire !" 

Sarah.-  Yes,  he  was  certainly  mad,  but  he  was  a little  afraid  of 
stirring  up  a hornet’s  nest  and  getting  another  Lexington  Day  started.  I 
could  read  him  like  a book.  “Goad  ’em  along,  Josiah,”  I said  to  the 
boy,  and  he  started  them  up, — down  our  path  of  course,  for  I was 
nearly  pulling  the  nigh  one’s  head  off,  but  I yelled  till  I knew  I’d  raise 
the  neighborhood,  “SHOOT!  I dare'  ye  to  shoot  a zvoman  /” 


18 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


John.  I tell  ye,  Betsy,  I never  saw  a neater  bluff, — nor  a braver 
one.  He  just  twitched  his  horse  around  and  said,  “Oh,  well,  if  it’s  pri- 
vate property  I have  no  wish  to  interfere  with  it,  ’ and  off  they  galloped. 

Betsy.  ( Jumps  up  and  grasps  Sarah  s hands.)  Oh,  Nat  would 
be  so  proud  of  his  sister,  dear ! Don  t I wish  I could  be  a heroine  like 
you  ! Why,  you’re — you're  as  great  as  Lady  Washington ! 

Sarah.  ( Playfully  boxes  her  ears.)  Never  say  such  a thing, 
Betsy;  I'm  John’s  "wife”  and  Nat’s  sister  and  a Daughter  of  Liberty. 
That’s  plenty  enough.  Oh,  who  can  that  be?  ( Sounds  of  a triple  rap.) 

Betsy.  Oh,  can  it  be  Nat?  Do  open  quickly,  Sarah. 

(Sarah  opens  the  door , enter  tall  man  muffled  in  a heavy  cloak  u nth 
high  collar  nearly  concealing  his  face , closes  door  hastily  and  tfeaks  in 
a low  deep  voice.)  % 

Man.  This  is  the  honie  of  John  Fulton,  and  these  are  friends  of 
Liberty? 

John.  I am  John  Fulton,  sir,  and  I can  vouch  for  these  women. 
What  is  your  desire  ? Will  you  be  seated  ? 

Man.  (Throws  off  cloak,  sits  down  wearily.)  I am  Major 
Brooks,  of  the  Colonial  service.  In  my  possession  are  despatches 
which  should  be  carried  into  Boston  tonight,  through  the  enemies’  lines. 
This  is  business  for  our  beloved  General  Washirfgton,  himself.  Mr. 
Fulton,  it  has  been  told  me  of  your  patriotism,  your  reliability,  and  your 
knowledge  of  every  nook  and  corner  of  Boston.  Will  you  take  the  trust 
and  do  your  best  to  carry  these  despatches? 

John.  ( With  a groan.)  Major  Brooks,  my  heart  is  at  your  serv- 
ice, every  beat  of  itx — but  my  plaguey  legs ! These  rheumatics  tie  me 
down  like  ropes. 

Major  Brooks.  (Rises  and  paces  about.)  This  is  very  serious. 
They  must  be  carried,  and  there  is  reason  to  think  that  I am  watched 
and  spied  upon.  I would  gladly  run  the  risk  so  far  as  my  own  safet} 
is  concerned,  but  there  is  too  much  at  stake  for  the  cause.  Do  you 
know  of  a man  to  go  ? 

John.  (Slowly,  sadly  shakes  his  head.)  No,  sir ; the  able-bodied 
patriots  are  with  the  army. 


A Colonial  Drama  tn  Three  Acts 


19 


Sarah.  ( Coming - to  John's  side.)  Major  Brooks,  would  you 
trust  the  papers  to  a woman?  I know  the  way  as  well  as  John  does, 
and  it  might  be  a woman  could  pass  unchallenged  where  a man  could 
not. 

Major  Brooks.  ( Looks  searchingly  at  her.)  A woman?- — I had 
not  thought  of  that.  No,  Madam,  no;  I fear  it  wotdd  not  do.  The 
hours  will  be  late,  and  the  journey  perhaps  doubly  dangerous  for  a 
woman. 

85$**  - ; - '••  • v.  / 

John.  (Sternly.)  No,  Sarah,  certainly  not.  It  would.be  a ter- 
rible risk.  Oh,  these  wretched  legs  of  mine ! 

Sarah.  (Calmly.)  Think,  Major  Brooks — it  must  be  done;  you 
cannot  do  it,  John  cannot  stir  from  his  chair.  I can  do  it,  if  it  can  be 
done  at  all.  Forget  I am  a woman,  and  think  only  of  Washington  and 
our  Country. 

Major  Brooks.  (Slowly.)  I do  think,  Mistress  Fulton,  and  X 
honor  your  bravery  and  patriotism,  but  cohsider  the  hardships.  It 
will  be  midnight  before  you  can  possibly  reach  Charlestown  by  walking, 
for  we  cannot  risk  the  noise  of  a galloping  horse.  Do  you  know  Wil- 
liam Dawes’  wharf  ? 

Sa&ah.  I do,  sir. 

Major  Brooks.  A boat  with  oars  left  in  it  is  to  be  tied  there. 
Now  consider  the  long  rowings, — the  danger  of  discovery — Oh,  it  is 
entirely  impossible.  We  shall  have  to  consider  some  other  plan. 

John.  (Slozoly.)  Sarah's  got  a good  deal  of  knack  at  doing 
what  she  sets  out  to  do.  I rather  think  she’s  safer  to  get  through  than 
any  man  I could  put  my  hand  on  at  this  minute.  If  we  had  Revere 
now—. 


Major  Brooks.  (Gravely.)  Revere  would  not  do  for  this  work. 
His  dare-devil  deeds  have  accomplished  so  much  that  he  is  a marked 
man.  Such  would  not  do. 

Sarah.  (During  the  last  two  speeches  has  slipped  out  and  nozv 
appears  clad  in  long  black  cape  and  close  black  hood.)  This  would  be 
my  wear,  Major  Brooks, — my  mother’s  camlet  cloak  and  hood  that  I 
have  cherished  from  moths  for  surely  such  a night  as  this.  Her 
mother  fought  the  scalping  Indians,  and  surely  some  of  her  bravery 
would  wrap  me  round.  I would  you  would  agree  to  let  me  make  the 
trial. 


20 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


Major  Brooks.  ( Walks  up  and  down  in  silence  with  folded  arms 
— comes  to  an  abrupt  stop.)  It  may  be  foolhardy,  but  I shall  let  you 
try.  The  sun  never  shone  on  a braver  woman  than  you,  Mistress  Ful- 
ton, for  many  a man  would  quail  at  this  task.  This  little  packet  con- 
tains dispatches.  Do  not  lose  it.  If  you  are  captured  it  will  reveal 
nothing,  for  it  is  in  a cipher  to  which  only  General  Washington  and  my- 
self have  the  key.  Run  no  needless  risks,  and  God  grant  you  may  re- 
turn in  safety. 

Sarah.  ( Courtseys  deeply.)  I thank  you,  sir.  I will  try  to  be 
wise  and  prudent. 

Betsy.  ( Sobbing , grasps  her.)  If  Nat  were  here,  he  wouldn't  let 
you  go. 

Sarah.  (Severely.)  Hush,  Betsy, — and  remember  you  must 
spend  no  time  in  tears.  I leave  John  and  these  fires  in  your  charge. 
You  will  hardly  miss  me  till  I shall  return.  (Bends  over 'the  invalid  V 
chair.)  Now,  John, — - 

John.  To  think  you  have  to  do  my  work, — it’s  bitter  hard.  And 
for  Heaven’s  sake,  be  careful,  Sarah ! 

Sarah.  (Kisses  his  forehead.)  Now,  Mohawk,  this  is  my  Tea- 
Party; — I didn’t  worry  over  you — now  you  do  the  same.  (She  shakes 
her  finger.)  Remember,  Betsy,  no  tears  l Farewell,  Major  Brooks! 
(Exit  Sarah , swiftly.) 

Major  Brooks.  What  a woman  ! What  a woman  ! And  for  us 
who  are  left,  it  will  be  a night’s  vigil  of  fear  and  hope.  And,  friends, 
let  us  heap  the  fire,  resolvingdo  hope  only,  that  thus  perchance  our  souls 
may  strengthen  hers  upon  its  way. 

CURTAIN. 

AGT  III 
Scene  II 

Place:  Same  setting  as  former  scene,  the  Fulton  home  in  Med- 

ford. 

Time:  A few  weeks  later. 

(Sarah,  Betsy,  and  Ixucy  Flucker-Knox,  of  Boston,  in  their  best 
. gowns,  wearing  caps  and  large  aprons,  are  moving  about  the  room.) 

* 

Betsy.  Well,  surely  ’tis  a great  event  and  worthy  of  our  best 
gowns.  We  should  keep  on  our  caps  and  aprons  till  they  gallop  around 
the  bend  of  the  road.  We  shall  hear  the  hoof-beats. 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


21 


Lucy.  I spent  a power  of  time  on  my  hair  and  debated  half  an 
hour  whether  to  wear  patches. 

Sarah.  We  shall  look  quite  right,  if  we  be  not  overcome  with 
shyness.  As  you  say,  Betsy,  ’tis  not  every  day  we  entertain  General 
Washington. 

Lucy.  Fie,  Sarah;  be  not  afraid  of  him.  He  is  but  a man  after 
all,  a man  approving  of  good  looks  in  ladies,  and  well  pleased  with  good- 
ly ’food  and  drink.  Too  bad'  you  cannot  make  him  some  fish  chowder, 
Sarah. 

Sarah.  ( Dusting  and  arranging.)  I did  wish  to  give  a great  din- 
ner, but  he  can  stay  but  a few  moments,- so  Major  Brooks  sent  word 
My  best  rich  fruit  cake  and  some  refreshing  punch  in  abundance  for  all 
seemed  about  the  best  that  I could  do  in  such  short  time— Oh  I wish 
I had  a better  ladle ! This  was  my  Grandmother’s,  and  brought  from 
England.  It  has  a worn  and  battered  look. 

Lucy.  Oh,  a little  bird  told  me,— told  me ! 

' • 

Sarah.  Told  you  what,  dear  ? 

Lucy.  I must  not  tell, — but  wait  for  maybe  a half  hour,  maybe 
not  so  long.  Poor  old  ladle,  will  you  miss  your  chance  of  serving  the 
great  General  ? 

Sarah.  ( Shakes  her.)  You  provoking  child!  What  do  you 
mean?  ( Sounds  of  stamping).  Oh,  here  comes  John! 

Betsy.  And  Nathaniel,  I know ! Let  me  run  to,  meet  them ! 
(Exit.)  ( Betsy  immediately  runs  hack  in , waving  a scarf  in  her  hand , 
, followed,  by  John  Fulton,  Nat  Bradlee,  and  Paul  Revere.) 

Betsy.  O Sister  Sarah,  great  works  ! This' noble  trio  declare  you 
must  be  blindfolded. 

Sarah.  O boys,  no  nonsense  now,  with  the  General  almost  at  the 
door ! Did  they  say,  John,  why  he  was  coming  ? 

John  Fulton.  No  word,  save  that  Major  Brooks  said  he  wished 
to  meet  you.  Of  course  I cannot  imagine  why  anyone  should  wish  to 
do  that.  There,  sit  down  and  be  tied  up.  ( They  hustle  around , hide 
the  old  ladle,  undo  a new  one,  put  it' in  the  hold,  lead  Sarah  over  to% 
the  table , and  then  unfasten  the  bandage.) 


22 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


Sarah-.  O John,  this  magnificent  new  ladle  ! Where  did  you  ever 
get  it,  and  how  did  you  know  it  was  the  very  thing  I wanted?.  Ah, 
Lucy,  this  was  your  pretty  secret!  How  did  you  know? 

Nat.  Well,  Sarah,  ’tis  a present  from  a certain  wild  band  of  Mo- 
hawks, and  made  by  one  of  ’em.  You  know  we  reckon  you’re  the 
Mother  o’  the  Boston  Tea-Party. 

Sarah.  “Made  by  one?”  Oh,  I see  the  mark!  ’Tis  Mister  Re- 
vere’s  fine  work.  I might  have  known,  for  there’s  not  a silversmith  in 
the  colonies  like  him.  O this  grand  gift!  Mister  Maker  and  Givers 
all, — let  me  salute  you.  ( She  makes  deep  curtseys.) 

Betsy.  ( Runs  to  window.)  Girls,  girls, — off  with  oui  caps  ana 
aprons!  They  are  surely  coming.  ( Sounds  of  galloping  and  zvtioas 
outside.  The  women  hurry  out  and  in , the  men  go  out.) 

/ 

Sarah.  Let  us  cpiickly  be  in  dignified  order  to  receive  them.  John 
and  the  men  have  gone  out  to  meet  them  and  help  with  the  horses.  Oh, 
my  lovely,  lovely  ladle ! 

'{Enter  General  Washington  and  Officers,  followed  by  John  Fulton , 
Nat  Bradlee  and  Paul  Revere.) 

Major  Brooks.  ( Steps  forward.)  Mistress  Fulton,  let  me  pre- 
sent to  you  General  Washington,  who  needs  no  introduction.  ( Sarah 
curtseys  very  deeply.)  _ 

Sarah.  And  in  turn,  let  me  present  Mistress  Knox  and  Mistress 
Bradlee, — General  Washington  and  Major  Brooks.  I think  these  other 
Boston  friends  are  all  known  to  one  another.  ( General  bowing  and 
curtseying .) 

General  Washington.  P-am  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  linger  for  a 
lengthy  call,  Mistress  Fulton,  but  we  have  taken  this  time  from  duties 
that  are  pressing  to  pay  you  an  especial  visit. 

Sarah.  {Curtseys.)  H am  indeed  greatly  honored,  and  while  I 
must  not  urge  you  to  remain,  I must  surely  claim  the  time  to  serve  you 
punch,  made  by  my  Grandmother’s  recipe, — she  who  once  brewed  it  to 
cheer  and  hearten  a besieged  block  house,  with  Indians  lying  in  wait  all 
about  it.  Our  friend,  Mr.  Revere,  hath  made  for  us  a new  ladle,  to  be 
dedicated  by  its  first  service  to  you. 

General  Washington.  With  great  content  shall  I taste  this  his- 
toric drink,  ladled  out  by  such  fair  hands,  by  means  of  such  a worthy 
ladle.  #And,  Mistress  Fulton,  we  beg  permission  to  drink  first  the 
health  of  our  hostess. 


A Colonial  Drama  in  Three  Acts 


23 


Sarah.  ( Ladling.)  Permission  is  most  gratefully  given,  honored 
Sir. 

( Washington , holds  up  glass,  speaks  in  a meditative  way.) 

Washington.  And  can  this  gracious  lady  be  the  one,  Major 
Brooks,  who  so  gallantly  volunteered  to  be  her  country’s  messenger  ? 
Did  you  indeed  walk  those  weary  midnight  miles  to  Charlestown?  Did 
you  make  that  perilous  row  across  the  fiver,  in  constant  danger  from  the 
British  patrol?  I can  scarcely  believeAt yet  the  message  lay  before 
me  in  the  black  of  that  early  morning,  and  they  told  me  of  your  valor. 

Sarah.  ( Expostulating  with  both  hands.)  O Sir,  so  much  must 

not  be  made  of  that  little  task ! I wore  dark  garments  'that  protected 
me  better  than  a guard  of  minute  men.  I am  strong,  so  the  walk  and 
row  were  but  pleasant  exercise  to  me, — and  had  it  been  a thousand 
times  harder,  I would  have  done*  it  with  joy  in  my  heart,  for' you,  Sir, 
and  my  country ! 

Washington.  ( Bows  low.)  Mistress  Fulton,  I can  well  believe 
you.  They  have  told  me  other  tales  of  the  Mistress  of  the  Tea-party, 
and  of  her  who  gave  relief  at  Bunker  Hill.  {He  walks  up  and  down, 
then  pauses.)  Gentlemen,  we  are  a Republican  country,  yet  it  comes 
to  my  mind  that  it  will  not  be  amiss  if  we  bestow  a title.  {Halts  before 
her,  lifts  her  hand  and  gravely  kisses  it.)  Mistress  Sarah  Bradlee  Ful- 
ton, in  the  presence  of  my  staff  and  these  friends  of  ours,  I will  dub 
thee  “PATRIOT,”  and  to  my  mind  it  is  a finer,  greater  title  than  any 
Duchess  or  Princess  carries,  beyond  the  seas.  And  now  that  our  Lady 
Patriot  may  be  spared  the  embarrassment  of  replying, — we  will  dram 
our  glasses  and  onward  to  the  business. of  our  country.  Good  mistresses 
and  friends  all, — we  will  bid  you  farewell. 

{General  and  staff , bowing,  walk  out  with  dignity.) 

Sarah.  {Breathlessly.)'  Who  ever  could  have  thought  of  such  a 
thing?*  {Looks  at  her  hand.)  To  think  he  kissed  my  hand  L How  is 
a bddy  ever  to  wash  dishes  with  it  now  ? 

Revere.  {Slyly.)  Maybe  John  would  wash  the  dishes,-  or  Nat 
here. 

' Betsy.  No,  Nat  shall  not,  nor  John— but  I would  gladly  be  her 
/ lady  of  service.  I feel  as  if  she  were  our  Queen. 

Sarah.  Nonsense,  Betsy.  What  talk  is  this,  when  I was  but 
a-jesting?'  My  hand  is  honored,  and  ever  will  be,  if  I have^children 
and  grandchildren  to  remember  me,  but  nothing  can  be  taken  from  its 
honor  by  the  loving  service  it  does  wherever  needed.  Why  do  we  all 


24 


Sarah  Bradlee  Fulton,  Patriot 


look  so  solemn?  ♦Patriot  or  not,  I’m  growing  hungry.  Nat,  did  you 
bring  the  fish  I bade  you  ? See  if  it  is  cleaned  and  ready.  Betsy  and 
Lucy, "bring  out  the  best  china,  and  we  will -celebrate  with  chowder. 

Revere.  Aye,  Mistress,  and  if  General  Washington  could  but  par- 
take of  that,  he  would  kiss  thy  left  hand,  also. 

Sarah.  {Sternly.)  No  nonsense,  Mr.  Revere.  And  John,  why 
do. you. stand  so  silent?  . Is  it  still  hard  for  you  that  the  wretched  rheu- 
matism tied  you  that  night  to  your  chair  ? 

John.  (Slowly.)  Not  that,  my  girl — I would  be  a craven  indeed 
if  I envied  you  those  worthy  honors  — but  when  the  General  spoke,  I 
saw  it  all  so  plainly, — your  danger,  and  the  black  water  and  the  pointing 
rifles  of  the  sentries.  Why  did  I let  you  go  ? 

Sarah.  ( Laughs  heartily  and  stops  him  playfully Why,  John, 
you  are  worse  than  an -old  woman.  , JJere  Pm  going  to  live  to  ninety- 
five,  I’ll  be  bound, — and  you  a-worrying  that  I might  have  died  a month 
ago!  Well-a-day,— if  that  is  all  your  cause  to  worry,  you  may  make  a 
smile  as  broad  as  Massachusetts  Bay.  Come,  Lucy —let  ns  take  the 
man’s  part  and  offer  toasts,  too.  Take  the  beautiful  ladle  and  pour  for 
ALL  the  Patriots ; men  and  women  who  love  our  sturdy  colonies  and 
for  Liberty  will  live  and  die ! 

CURTAIN . 

*At  this  point  a minuet  danced  by  eight  couples  may  be  introduced 
with  beautiful  effect. 


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